


Can You Feel Me? (I'm Here)

by seaaweedbrain



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Canon, Protective Andrew Minyard, Soft Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23805478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaaweedbrain/pseuds/seaaweedbrain
Summary: "Drew?” Neil asked, his voice small and uncertain.Andrew hooked his fingers into Neil’s collar, drawing them closer together until Neil’s forehead rested against his. His breathing was heavy, irregular. Andrew placed a hand over Neil’s heart, feeling its heavy, ragged pulse beneath his sweatshirt."Shut up,” he said. “I'm here.”--Neil has an explosive episode. Andrew is there to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 15
Kudos: 456
Collections: ANDREIL





	Can You Feel Me? (I'm Here)

**Author's Note:**

> tw: mentions of self harm

“112%,” Andrew called out into an empty kitchen. “It’s fucking cold out there.”

As he placed the steaming cups of coffee onto the kitchen table, he spared a glance over one of Neil’s practice exams. He had gotten most of the questions right, but had given up after the fifth question, leaving a series of question marks in lieu of an answer. _Idiot,_ Andrew scribbled next to it in red ink.

In preparation for Neil’s finals, Andrew had dedicated most of his Sunday night to quizzing him on various Spanish terms and phrases and indulging the backliner in copious amounts of caffeine. (" _More,” Neil had insisted after his sixth cup. “More, more, more.” Andrew had rolled his eyes. "_ _Fucking junkie,” he’d replied, already reaching for his car keys._ )

“Neil,” he tried again, louder. He rolled his eyes. If the idiot had fallen asleep, he'd kill him. Or kiss him. Whichever he deemed a more fitting punishment at the time, Andrew supposed.

The dorm room was conspicuously quiet. The bedroom was dark, and the only visible light source came from the faint glow of the bathroom. He trailed through the dorm, flicking on light switches as he passed. When he reached the doorway to the bathroom, he faltered.

The first thing Andrew noticed was not the smashed-in mirror, nor was it the glass shards that scattered the room. It was Neil’s hands. His shaking fingers clutched fiercely to the sink, the knuckles battered in deep blues and purples. Andrew’s eyes flickered from Neil’s hands to his cheek, where a fresh bruise was forming.

“Neil.”

If Neil had heard him, he made no attempt to show it. Andrew approached him slowly, glass shards crunching beneath his shoes. He curled his fingers around the nape of Neil’s neck.

“You are Neil Abram Josten,” he said firmly. “Striker for the Palmetto State Foxes. Nathan Wesninski is dead. No one is coming for you. You are safe.”

He repeated the words until they felt foreign to his ears, until Neil offered him some form of recognition.

Neil blinked slowly. Once. Twice. It was as if he was hearing Andrew’s voice for the first time.

“Drew?” he asked, his voice small and uncertain.

Andrew hooked his fingers into Neil’s collar, drawing them closer together until Neil’s forehead rested against his. His breathing was heavy, irregular. Andrew placed a hand over Neil’s heart, feeling its heavy, ragged pulse beneath his sweatshirt.

“Shut up,” he said. “I'm here.”

Neil didn't say anything for a while, nor did he feel any pressure to. It was Andrew, always Andrew, holding him up.

“I look just like him,” Neil whispered. Andrew could feel his breath against his skin, hot and shaking.

“No, you don't.”

“Andrew.”

“You don't.” Andrew tightened his grip on Neil’s neck, but not enough to hurt. “You're nothing like him. He was a coward. You're stronger than him.”

Neil shrugged him off, and Andrew bristled at the loss of contact. Neil staggered out of the bathroom, clutching his head in his hands.

“Don't… don't say that. You don't know him.”

“You're right,” Andrew agreed, following him into the bedroom. “But I do know you. You're a good person who's had a very bad life. You care about other people more than you care about yourself. Hell, you care about that stupid sport more than you care about yourself. And one day you're going to make Court, because you're hardworking and determined and it's annoying as fuck, but it's who you are. You aren't your father.”

“No,” Neil argued. His eyes were wild and bright, digging deep into Andrew’s own. “You said it yourself. This relationship means nothing. _I'm_ nothing.”

In a second, he had Neil backed up against a wall, his elbow pressed firmly against Neil’s chest.

“If you really think that,” he said calmly, “then you're more of an idiot than I thought.”

With one arm still against Neil’s chest, Andrew used the other to search Neil’s front jean pocket. When he found what he was looking for, he pressed it firmly against Neil’s palm.

“What's this, Neil?”

Neil avoided his gaze, slumping against the wall defeatedly.

“Look at me,” he said. “What is this?”

Neil forced himself to meet Andrew’s eyes.

“Home,” he whispered, enclosing the key in his fist.

“Yeah,” Andrew said quietly, letting go. “ _Home_.”

Neil slumped forward and rested his head against Andrew’s shoulder. Instinctively, Andrew reached for Neil’s neck and began rubbing it, his movements slow and reassuring.

“I'm an idiot,” Neil said.

Andrew stepped back and curled both hands around the sides of Neil’s neck. He ran his finger over the fresh wounds on Neil’s cheek, inspecting the cuts.

“Yes, you are,” Andrew agreed. “You're also going to replace the mirror. Come on.”

He laced his fingers with Neil’s and dragged him into the bathroom. Neil let Andrew push him down onto the edge of the tub and waited patiently as he searched the drawers for the first aid kit. He then set to work cleaning and bandaging Neil’s wounds. It was a slow and silent process, the only noise in the dorm coming from the quiet hum of their microwave in the next room.

After wrapping up Neil’s hands, Andrew took them in his own and kissed his bruised knuckles softly. Neil sucked in a breath as Andrew moved up to his neck, and then his cheeks, pressing firm, reassuring kisses to his wounds.

And then finally, his lips.

The way that Andrew Minyard kissed was anything but gentle. It was long, deep, bruising. Permanent. Andrew’s lips moved hungrily against Neil’s own. He kissed Neil hard, as if to say _I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here I'm here I'm here-_

“Drew,” Neil panted. His lips were swollen and bruised, his hair mussed from where Andrew’s fingers had caught in them. Andrew bit Neil’s lower lip possessively and murmured a faint “ _what"_ against his mouth. Neil caught the hem of Andrew’s sweater in his fingers.

“I think I’m failing Spanish.”

  
  



End file.
